


Patrolwitches and Quidditch Pitches

by openmouthwideeye



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, F/M, Gen, Post-Hogwarts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-04
Updated: 2015-02-04
Packaged: 2018-03-10 13:07:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3291407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/openmouthwideeye/pseuds/openmouthwideeye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Jaime had no intention of playing nice with the rep from the DMLE. He hadn’t asked for those bloody Dragons fans to try and hex him after yesterday’s match. Why should he suffer for it?<i></i></i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Patrolwitches and Quidditch Pitches

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I realize I already posted an HP JB AU. I honestly have about 5 more I could write, but this is the one that started it all, so. Here it is. I promise I'll buckled down and continue Never Tickle a Sleeping Dragon soon.
> 
> *a million thanks to Isy, as always, who always takes the time to beta, no matter how busy she is.

Jaime wove in and out of the gleaming golden rings, relishing the rough wind tearing through his hair. The day was bright, even with dusk fast approaching, and the rain from yesterday’s match lingered in the air, cool and refreshing. His teammates had disappeared after practice, hitting the showers and apparating home. Jaime, however, had no intention of leaving his broom. If he landed he surrendered the high ground, but every minute in the air was a small victory against the man on the pitch.

He had no use for the hulking figure in those dull patrol robes that some departmental head or other had dubbed “inconspicuous.” He’d been so frustrated by the wizard’s arrival that he’d almost knocked Marbrand off his broom. The spectator had watched the scrimmage intently for a minute or two, seeming unaware that Jaime’s typical flying style favored skill over outright aggression. Visibly arresting his interest in the game, the man had put his head down and circled the perimeter, checking every dip and shadow for dark wizards or snarks or bloody grumkins. He’d even bolstered the defensive spells, as if Jaime lacked the wits to adequately protect himself.

“Magical Law Enforcement,” he grumbled under his breath, glancing down at the stoic figure as he spun sharply to weave back through the rings, dipping down and around the middle loop to keep himself from falling off his broom out of sheer boredom. After that incident the previous year with the rookie and a few ill-advised enchantments, the team manager locked the balls up tight when she left. It barely constituted training without the Quaffle, but he supposed flying maneuvers were _something_.

“They could have sent an Auror, at least.” If it’d been an Auror down there waiting for him, he would’ve suspected that his father had schemed the whole thing up to put a damper on his Quidditch career.

_Once you let this foolishness go_ , Tywin’s memory echoed in its best Senior Undersecretary to the Minister for Magic voice, _you can return home and reaffirm your place in the family legacy_.

“Not bloody likely,” Jaime muttered, scanning the ground again as he spun a tight arc and, without a missing beat, shot a hundred feet up into the air. The wind snapped up his cloak, turning brisk as he leveled off fifty feet above the stands. The patrolman looked like a shrunken gargoyle guarding the gate in those bulky blue-gray robes.

Well, shite luck or patriarchal scheming, Jaime had no intention of playing nice with the rep from the DMLE. He hadn’t asked for a bloody minder, just as he hadn’t asked for a team of Ministry officials to ransack his flat. He’d had nothing to do with those Dragons fans who tried to curse him after yesterday’s match. Why should he suffer for it?

The wizard on the ground glanced skyward, checking Jaime’s position before pulling something out of his pocket. It glinted in the dimming sunlight, a beacon to Jaime’s well-trained eyes. The patrolman eyed it surreptitiously, slumped, and tucked it back into his robes.

So the gargoyle wasn’t a statue after all. Jaime had begun to wonder if he was like those Muggle soldiers that Tyrion used to go on about, guarding the queen like empty suits of armor. He almost smiled, flying lazy circles above the turrets as he watched his unwelcome visitor stand straighter, resigned to yet another hour of tedious waiting.

_As long as I’m stuck here, I might as well entertain myself._

He finished a slow, loose loop around the pitch before executing a hairpin turn, streaking toward the ground and skidding to a halt two steps in front of his new bodyguard. The man didn’t flinch, but he couldn’t stop from coughing as a cloud of dust billowed up around them.

“Are you mental?” the patrolman grunted, clearing his throat heavily to dislodge the clinging flecks of dirt. “Or just _entirely_ — ” another hack “ — self-involved?”

Jaime had been ready with a quip, but it vanished with the sudden effort it took to stay upright. He scrambled to his feet, casually swinging the broom onto his shoulder to conceal his momentary gracelessness. The gray-and-blonde boulder waved a hand to dispel the motes that still swirled between them.

In that moment it would’ve taken everything Jaime had not to laugh. So he did.

“You’re a _witch_?”

Not even a decent-looking one. Merlin only knew why she hadn’t shrunken those teeth the moment she boarded the Hogwarts Express.

She squared her massive shoulders, chin tilted stubbornly, and Jaime saw it for what it was: a chink in her armor.

“Are you part giant?” he asked, grinning as he draped his wrists across the broom that spanned his shoulders. She set her stance, so he prattled on. “You must be taller than Olympe Maxime. You’re as tall as the Hogwarts gamekeeper, certainly.”

He could actually see her clenching down the words, pushing back her defenses. _How many times has she heard that comparison?_ he wondered. He probably shouldn’t have snagged such low-hanging fruit.

“Mr. Lannister,” she addressed him stiffly. Any stiffer and he might worry she’d been placed under the Imperius Curse. “I am Brienne Tarth. I’ve been sent from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement to keep you safe until the Auror’s Department— ”

“Oh?” Jaime scoffed, dropping the tail of his broom to the grass. If they were going to send him a babysitter, they could’ve at least chosen a competent one. This one might as well be a gargoyle for all the good she would do him. “So they’d like an official account of my death?”

A scowl cracked her mask of civility. “I got six N.E.W.T.s— ”

“In what, Muggle Studies?”

“— _and_ passed the stealth and tracking field tests. I’m assure you, Mr. Lannister, no harm will come to you. I won’t allow it.”

Merlin, he thought she believed that.

“I finished my Auror training in two years.” She opened her mouth in clear protest. Frustration seeped through him as he overruled her objection. “I’m unmatched in defensive and offensive spellwork and I’m pretty damn good at curse-breaking, too. I don’t need a _minder_ — fresh out of Hogwarts — on the off chance that some rabid Valeria fan decides to hunt me down and hex me.”

She goggled for a moment, falling back on rote memorization. “No Auror on record has— ”

He cut her off, a sour taste in his mouth. “I’m not an Auror, am I? I’m a bloody Quidditch player.”

He’d still been hungover from the celebratory Firewhisky when he’d realized just how perfectly his father had orchestrated everything. The most talented recruit in a hundred years? He’d be Minister for Magic in under a decade. Jaime had turned in his Auror’s robes and been back on his broom before sunset.

Still, he’d wager he saw more excitement on the Quidditch pitch than Miss By-the-Book saw arresting underaged wizards and hex-happy Quidditch fans.

The witch looked beside herself, knowing she shouldn’t ask and unable to help it. “Why would you give up— ”

“Everything you’ve ever wanted?” Jaime smiled wryly. “To piss off my father, of course.”

Her face furrowed in such honest confusion that Jaime almost felt bad for her. She opened her mouth as if to argue, then promptly closed it.

_Smart girl._

“So you see, I don’t need a rookie patrolwitch hanging about the pitch like an overgrown Lannisport groupie.”

Her eyes hardened, but she kept her composure. Barely. “It’s my _job_.”

_Merlin, but her eyes are blue._ Unyielding, too. It would take more effort to argue with the woman than to let her do her thrice-damned job.

“You were a bloody Hufflepuff, weren’t you?”

She crossed her arms instead of answering, as good as a badger tattooed across her forehead.

“Fine.” He waved her away. “Sit in the stands. Enjoy the show. What do I care if your arse goes numb?”

She nodded resolutely, uncrossing her arms.

Jaime hadn’t noticed her wand before, a long length of ash that would likely snap if she kept clenching it like that. He half hoped she’d try to hex him so he’d have an excuse to fight back.

He hefted his broom — though he was already sick of flying —, determined to drive her mad with tedium.

“Wait,” she said, before he could mount, “we need to discuss your schedule. I’ll accompany you to games and practices until the threat has passed, but— ”

“You can wait outside my bloody window for all I care. What does it matter to me if you waste your nights on an assignment your boss invented to drive us both mad?” He smiled thinly. “If you’re lucky maybe I’ll put on a show.”

“This is my _job_ ,” she repeated without a drop of humor. “I take your safety very seriously and— ”

“Fine.” He turned and grabbed a spare broom from the cupboard, tossing it to her as he swung onto his. He conjured a Quaffle as she gaped at him, looking much like he expected his sister’s boggart might when she caught sight of her own reflection. “You want to be my shadow? Get on a blasted broom and make it worth my while.”

Brienne only hesitated a moment before snatching up the broom, apparently deciding that she could guard him better in the air than from the ground. She laid it flat on the pitch and moved her wand down its handle, muttering and tapping as she went.

“Oh, fuck, you’re one of those.”

He dug in his heels, ignoring her protests of, “Someone might have hexed it!,” and kicked off into the air.

“Try not to let my good looks distract you,” he called as she scrambled to mount her broom. “After all, if you fall there will be no one to protect me.”

He soared higher, turning widdershins above her head until she launched into the air, the wind carrying words like “vanity” and “veelas” straight to his waiting ears.

Jaime smiled wryly. There had always been rumors about veelas in the Lannister genealogy. He didn’t buy them for a second, but his sister’s tendency to run hot and cold had been almost enough to convince him, once.

_Don’t think about Cersei._

Below him, the stodgy patrolwitch wrapped her long legs around the broomstick and bent low, minimizing wind resistance so she could rise more quickly on the lackluster Comet 260. He threw the Quaffle, more to distract himself than anything, and found himself impressed when she rocketed up to catch it.

“Beater?” he asked, watching her brace the ball against her ribs. He’d never known a Beater to keep a loose grip on the Quaffle, even when they were playing without Bludgers.

She grunted an affirmative, hauling back from the shoulder to launch the Quaffle across the pitch. Jaime leaned forward on his broomstick, creating a solid line as he streaked across the sky to tuck the ball into his body.

“You can throw,” he called, pulling his handle skyward. “But can you catch?” As if it, too, was curious about her abilities, his Firebolt launched forward so quickly that the stands blurred behind him.

Brienne mirrored him, paralleling each zip and dip until she tired of stall tactics and tugged her broom sideways, bumping up alongside him to wrench the Quaffle from him.

_She’s stronger than your average Beater._ His hand ached, fighting harder than he would have thought to keep maintain his grip on the ball. _Stronger than half the blokes on the bloody team._ It shouldn’t have surprised him — the witch really was large enough to be part giant — but still, he felt a thrill. This might actually be a contest.

“Tell me, witch— ” she grunted, and he grinned “— have we met before?”

Her fingers slipped from the Quaffle. She dug back in with double determination, as if she could cover her slip through sheer force of will.

_She was hoping I wouldn’t remember._

“You’re too green for us to have been at school together,” he mused, kicking at her stirrup to try and shake her. “And Cassandra knows you don’t attend many Ministry galas.”

She shouldered him in the ribs so hard that he actually grunted. It took him a minute force enough air back into his lungs to speak. When he did, his grin was broad enough for a Cheering Charm. “Tell me, Madame Stick-In-the-Mud— ”

She made to slam him again, but this time he evaded her. He flew a smooth loop, circling around until he faced her in the air.

“— are you a _fan_?”

Brienne barked a laugh, piercing Jaime’s bubble of mirth. Her eyes widened as her mouth clamped shut; she seemed mortified by her outburst.

Jaime deflated in his seat, rueing the guileless look on her face. _That would’ve been worth the bloody price of admission._

She bit her lip, seeming torn between embarrassment and satisfaction at his obvious disappointment. Concentric rings of red and white skin framed her crooked teeth, drawing attention to the freckles on her chin.

“You were visiting your brother,” she finally said. “Professor Lannister.”

As if that clarified anything.

But somehow, it did.

“I remember you.”

How could he bloody well forget? One minute he was ducking into the Charms classroom for an impromptu visit with Tyrion, and the next a bloody six foot tall witch had appeared a hand span in front of him. His brother had laughed himself silly once the girl had stumbled her way out of the room, blushing brighter than the curtains in the Gryffindor common room.

“You managed a halfway decent Disillusionment Charm for a sixth year.”

_Halfway decent_ meaning he might have wound up kissing her if she hadn’t startled herself back into view. _That_ Tyrion would have never let him live down.

Her cheeks pinked. For half a breath he could still feel the heat of her gasp fanning across the bridge of his nose.

“I bet you really did ace your stealth exam.”

She seemed to take it as an insult, as if complimenting her spellwork could somehow be misconstrued. He barely knew what was happening before she’d dug in her heels and rushed him. He fumbled the Quaffle, caught up in their conversation, and cursed as she hooked it with the tips of her fingers and palmed it in one large hand.

A bolt of light shot over her head, singeing a lock of hair that had been swept up by her flight. The pieces scattered, landing pale and fragile on her shoulders as she hunched instinctively  around her broomstick.

Jaime yanked his wand from his pocket, cursing the old practice robes when it snagged on a ragged seam. “Protego,” he shouted half a heartbeat before a stunning spell could knock Brienne off her broom. The spell ricocheted off his shield, creating a shower of sparks that obscured the caster below.

The witch was quicker than he’d given her credit for. Without missing a beat she wheeled her broom around, hurling the Quaffle at the slight figure in the stands. Their assailant dove out of the way, dropping behind the railing to avoid a vicious blow to the head. Brienne wasted no time before taking a defensive position, hovering a few feet under Jaime to prevent any spells from hitting him from below. They launched matching Blasting Curses and moved sideways in tandem, evasive maneuvers that were second nature after decades of dodging rogue Bludgers. The spells collided in the stands, exploding around their attacker in a cloud of dust and debris.

“Reducto!” Brienne shouted before the smoke had cleared. Two rows of seating blasted away with the front railing, falling to the grass in a shower of broken boards.

Jaime saw a skinny shape fall and took a chance, throwing a Freezing Charm at the figure obscured by a haze of settling debris. His spell undershot the dangling feet by a width no wider than his wand. Their attacker took the warning, loosening his grip on the ragged edge of the stands to drop the hundred or so feet to the ground. The wizard lost his hood, frantically searching for a wand that would be useless in less time than it took Jaime to blink.

“Arresto momentum!”

Brienne’s charm saved the unfortunate fool from an early demise. He jerked to a halt a handful of meters above the earth, tumbling the rest of the way to land in a crooked heap.

_More’s the pity,_ Jaime thought, sparing the patrolwitch a hard look as their attacker scrambled to his feet. She aimed a body-bind curse, but the wizard evaded it easily, finding his wand to send a blasting curse between them.

Brienne spun out of the way. The curse hit the tail of Jaime’s broom, sending him careening off course for a precious few seconds. Those seconds saved his life; had he been in control of his broom, he never would have avoided the stream of fire that sailed over his right shoulder. Brienne turned, dodging another jet of light to point her wand, not at the attacker on the ground, but at Jaime. He couldn’t hear her incantation, but from the sudden sensation of something cold and wet dripping down his head to his toes, he knew their attacker could no longer see him.

It was over quickly after that. Brienne was more than a match for the man on the ground, and Jaime easily evaded the blind jinxes their attacker threw in his direction. While the witch kept the wizard on his toes, Jaime knocked him flat with a well-aimed leg-locker curse. He magnanimously allowed his partner the pleasure of binding the idiot in thick cords of rope, though he couldn’t stop himself from flicking a quick stinging hex at the wriggling figure on the ground.

“That was unchivalrous,” Brienne said, looking for all the world like a professor scolding him in detention despite her singed hair and the sheen of sweat on her brow.

Jaime didn’t let it damper his good mood. His blood sang, alive with adrenaline and the thrill of victory. “I’ll happily apologize,” he said, reversing the Disillusionment Charm as they flew slowly toward the ground, “as soon as he explains the chivalry in attacking two innocent Quidditch players on a Thursday afternoon.”

She accepted the truth of that — though not gladly if her grimace was any indication —, wordlessly training her wand on the bound wizard as she dismounted her broom. Jaime watched her as he landed, considering the practical, nonverbal spell she used to levitate their assailant a meter off the ground. He felt a sudden surety that more than one dark sorcerer had boiled in a hot cauldron after underestimating that witch.

Brienne’s expression soured. Jaime followed her line of sight, frowning when he caught sight of their attacker’s face.

Pimply, round, and red. Seventeen, if that.

“This really was about Quidditch, wasn’t it?” Jaime almost couldn’t believe it.

“He’s just a kid.” Brienne gripped her wand tighter. He half wondered if she were convincing herself not to undo the binding spell.

“They’re as likely to owl his parents as to try him before the Wizengamot.”

Brienne stood frozen, blinking her large blue eyes at the skinny wizard. After a moment she shook herself, waving her wand to levitate the fool boy closer. “I’d feel better if you went home while I take him in. My supervisor assures me that your flat has been— ”

“Hells, you’re coming _back_? Haven’t you had enough bloody excitement?”

Her chin rose stubbornly. “I’ve been trusted with your safety, Mr. Lannister. Until we can determine whether the boy worked alone— ”

“Yes, yes, I need a bloody minder,” Jaime grumbled. “You really think he has accomplices? A team of highly trained dark wizards, perhaps, tasked with bringing down a league of international Quidditch stars?”

Brienne frowned, but said nothing. The rope-bound teen floated beside them. His angry, roving eyes made the silence uncomfortable, almost absurd. Finally she glanced up, nodding shortly.

“You’ve proven yourself more than capable.” Her eyes were sincere and so bloody blue it was breathtaking. “I’ll discuss the situation with my supervisor and owl you in the morning.”

She turned on her heel, moving away from the splintered wood that littered the ground to find a clear space to apparate.

“If it’ll ease your guilt,” Jaime called, for reasons he couldn’t fathom if he’d had a week to wonder, “I play the glen off King’s Court Road every Friday.”

She turned, lips parted in surprise. Her whole face seemed to unfold as she searched him for sincerity. For a moment Jaime imagined he could read every laugh, every whisper, every cruel smile that had etched that doubt into the lines of her mouth.

Her wand wavered as those expressive eyes met his. The levitating wizard bumped her shoulder and she stepped away, putting too much attention into correcting her form.

“Noon?” she asked with stiff composure, eyes trained on the wand movement that she’d probably learned from his brother.

He was supposed to floo to Hogsmeade for lunch tomorrow.

“Noon. Bring your broom.”

Tyrion would understand. It was hard to find good Quidditch players for pick-up matches.

Brienne nodded, grabbing her prisoner and turning on the spot. As she disappeared from view, Jaime thought he glimpsed a small smile curling the corners of her mouth.

_I wonder what the witch likes for lunch?_ he mused, whistling an absent tune as he locked up and headed for the apparition grounds.

It really did no harm to humor her and apparate straight home. After all, what was the point in practicing alone?

 

**Author's Note:**

> Alas and alack my finicky muse. There's so much potential to turn this into a chapter fic (tbh I'm not terribly impressed with it as a oneshot), but now there's that _other ___Hogwarts AU to consider. Ah well, one day I'll be rich and frivolous with nothing to do but write fic all day. Until then, kindly leave feedback ;)


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